Just a Little Song, Wright
by Blackwidina
Summary: Phoenix wants to get rid of the piano.  Apollo disagrees.


A/N: Okay, this is really, really short; I'm sorry. That being said, it's one of my favorite Phoenix/Apollo moments-it just sort of came to me one day. There are also a couple of other shorts I have that kind of go along with the theme, but if I add them, they won't be a continuation of this chapter, but just oneshots of their own.

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><p><strong>Just a Little Song, Wright<strong>

Apollo stared in shock. "You can't be serious."

"Why not? I'm back to being a lawyer, there's no reason to ever have to touch a piano again."

"B-but . . . I mean, you've been doing it for so long! And you said something about taking lessons!"

Phoenix laughed, "Kid, I was never any good anyway." He gestured to the office piano, for the first time free of all the detritus. "I probably haven't touched that thing in years. The only reason I had it in the first place was because one of the clients used it to raise his final bet. Said if I was going to take his money _and_ make his ears bleed, he might as well spread the suffering."

". . . "

"In any case, it's just taking up space, and I can probably sell it pretty easily, considering it's in pristine condition."

"But . . . what if you or Trucy _did_ want to play sometime?" Apollo didn't know why he felt so strongly about the thing, but for some reason, selling the Wright's piano seemed like . . . like Phoenix was just trying to rid the place of all evidence he'd ever been reduced to a poker/piano player. And while it was great to see his boss act more like his childhood hero, Apollo knew that a large part of him would forever be attached to the hobo.

Phoenix seemed highly amused, if his face was any indication. Smirking, he put his hands on his hips in a pose from earlier days, and replied, "Apollo, the day I hear decent, recognizable music coming out of that piano, I will _give_ it away to that person. Now, since you lost yesterday's poker game, I have wood polish and a rag. I'm sure I need not instruct you further." With a dramatic gesture that suggested the man had been hanging around Edgeworth again, he sauntered off to the mini-kitchen, probably looking for another bottle of grape juice to enjoy with his evening paperwork.

Grumbling, Apollo set to work, cleaning off the bench first, since it was easily moveable. The top was actually a lid, and he discovered a large pile of sheet music inside. Very dusty sheet music. He sneezed, shook it all out, sneezed again, and started reading titles.

There were several beginner pieces, some a bit harder, all of them pretty common. He recognized several of the songs that Phoenix allegedly 'knew,' and realized that in his hands lay the evidence that at one time, the man probably _had_ tried to learn. Most likely on his own, given the state of their finances for the last seven plus years. And he had probably been quite frustrated at his inability, especially since half of his new job sort of involved it. He knew that Phoenix wasn't actually tone deaf, because he liked to hum along with the radio, and he wasn't bad at all.

Apollo took a deep breath, eyeing the piano in front of him. He had an idea, but he wasn't sure how good it was, or if Phoenix might take it the wrong way. He set the sheet music down, after doing some mental cataloging and went on dusting the piano bench down.

The thing was, he could play. A little. Better than Phoenix could, for certain, which was one of the reasons it irked him so badly when Phoenix bastardized a piece. The only problem was it had been years—literally, since he was about twelve—since he'd touched a piano. But all Phoenix had said was decent, right? Decent and recognizable.

Trying to casually multitask, he set the sheet music for Beethoven's 9th Symphony, better known as "Ode to Joy" over to the side, so that he could look at it while he dusted. It looked familiar enough, especially since Christmas songs were a staple of any music teacher's curriculum. By the time he'd cleaned all the keys, he was fairly sure that he could play the song, so he took a quick break to the bathroom to hurriedly run some cold water over his bracelet. He could remember it banging up against the wood, or worse, the keys themselves, and messing him up unless he either took it off or made it wide enough to rest closer to his elbow.

He took a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders. He could play, even if he didn't like it. And he didn't. But this was for a higher purpose, right? _Wright_. Grimacing at his own pun, he exited the bathroom.

When he returned, Phoenix was casually running his finger along the top of the piano, checking for dust. "An excellent job, as usual, Polly."

"Move," he replied, bluntly. He gave the man a gentle shove, getting only a raised eyebrow in return. Grabbing the sheet music he'd laid aside, he set it up on the stand, gave himself a slow (and relatively forgiving) tempo, then put both hands on the ivories and started to play.

It . . . wasn't great. All the practice he'd been forced into (and he tried _not_ to think of that particular foster parent) gave him some pretty solid muscle memory, even after a decade, but he had a little trouble coordinating both of his hands at once. Despite using simplified chording, his left hand would still drag behind, forcing him to stop here and there. Plus, he had as little subtlety with an instrument as he did while speaking, and tended to hit the keys a little roughly. He also knew damn well that he probably had his 'thinking _really_ hard' face showing. Klavier would have enjoyed himself thoroughly at Apollo's expense.

Once he'd played to the end, he made himself go through it again. The second rendition was a little better, flowing much more smoothly, and he actually felt a little proud of himself by the time he'd limped to the final measure. When the last note died away, he glanced over at his boss, noting with apprehension the blank look on his face.

"Uh . . . I saw 'Fur Elise' in that stack, if this wasn't good enough. I _think_ I could still play that one. Or that minuet song by Bach. I just need a little more practice to remember . . ." He trailed off as Phoenix leaned forward and kissed him.

Blood rushed to his cheeks—they (well, _he_) had a very strict policy about PDAs at work, simply because Murphy's Law insisted that they be interrupted at the most awkward possible times. And the fact that they _had_ been walked in on so often was an indication of Apollo's complete lack of willpower where Phoenix was concerned.

Luckily, Phoenix pulled back after a few seconds, leaving Apollo wide-eyed, flushed, and already short of breath. "Wh-what was that for?"

Phoenix gave a little smile, then tweaked Apollo's nose. "You win. We'll keep the piano."

Apollo beamed.

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><p>AN: The sweetness of this just gags me. In any case, I dedicate this particular chapter to my best friend in high school She was adopted, and I always felt a lot of sympathy for her. She had the kind of parents that try to live vicariously through their children. You know, the mom always wanted to learn piano, so she made my friend take it; the dad liked sports, so she was always signed up throughout the year for whatever was in season, etc. Plus, her mom was a teacher, so she had to have *perfect* grades at all times or ELSE. Tough stuff.

As always, feel free to review-it really does make my day, and usually inspire me to work even harder!


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